


yet again, we're the only ones

by ptiny



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Chapter 2: Horseshoe Overlook (Red Dead Redemption 2), Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Mild canon divergence, One Shot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Unsafe Sex, philosophical debate is foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26641591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptiny/pseuds/ptiny
Summary: you tell dutch that night about the miller passage that slipped unbidden into your mind while passing caliban’s seat. he is sitting on the cot, elbows at his knees, vest open and shirt half unbuttoned. a few more weeks of this weather and he’ll have colour in his face again, in his forearms and the tender spot above his collar. now, though, he is pale with winter and sick with the last few months.still. there’s a shine in his eye when he asks if it prompted a shift for you, somewhere, on mister miller’s politics.your first night in horseshoe overlook.
Relationships: Dutch van der Linde/Original Female Character(s), Dutch van der Linde/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	yet again, we're the only ones

evelyn miller says that the soul of this country is in the land. 

not in its men and their wants and their follies but in vistas like the one before you now, a sweeping, jagged range of stone and grass that cuts to something in your heart with its similarity to the mountains of your childhood. you look over at him, at the hard appraising line of his jaw, nose, neck. he has been through this part of the state before, or at least told you as much. like he can sense your eyes on him he glances across the carriage at you and the corner of his mouth lifts. it’s only a glance of a smile. a far cry from the reassuring, open-armed grins that kept appearing for everyone else during the last few days in colter. you recognise it for the candour that it is, and reach over to hold his hand where it rests at the reins.

\- 

you tell dutch that night about the miller passage that slipped unbidden into your mind passing the land that hosea has since told you is caliban’s seat. he is sitting on the cot, elbows at his knees, vest open and shirt half unbuttoned. a few more weeks of this weather and he’ll have colour in his face again, in his forearms and the tender spot above his collar. now, though, he is pale with winter and sick with the last few months. 

still. there’s a shine in his eye when he asks if it prompted a shift for you, somewhere, on mister miller’s politics. 

‘i think the materialists would have something to say on the idea of this country having a soul,’ you tell him. from outside the closed tent you can hear muted chatter, an argument, and the faraway trace of something more animal. it’s still early evening and there are things you should get done, yet.

‘the materialists have a good deal to offer us on the matter of work,’ he says. ‘but i’m more concerned with life.’

you know he’s thinking about the long nights in camp, before everything, when the most pressing things the two of you had to talk about were books. you know this mostly because you’re thinking about them too. the winding arguments, sitting so close for so long that you could smell his tobacco and lye soap on your skin the next day. he had been surprised that you could read and then surprised that you could hold court with him. really, you had chastised - a daughter of the railroad strike, and you’re impressed that i can make sense of eugene debs. 

when his surprise turned to desire, you thought that if you were going to cast everything out to walk the strange precipice of life outside the law—you may as well be in love with one of them, too. you are still half-waiting to be proved wrong. 

‘all life is some kind of work, van der linde,’ you grin. ‘and the other way ‘round, too.’ it’s the most honestly you’ve smiled in weeks and it’s because you can sense that you’re about to get a rise out of him. the good kind of rise. the kind he takes some pleasure in. you resist looking at him, instead unpinning your hair and turning to the half-unpacked carpet bag of your clothing. before you can raise a hand to unfasten your dress, he’s crossed the tent to meet you in half a stride. 

‘the ascetic streak rears its head again,’ he murmurs. you have to bite down on a shiver at his sudden closeness, and if he notices he remains frustratingly pragmatic even as he gets a start on the buttons running along the curve of your spine. ‘were you this hard-nosed when we met?’

the last button, and then his hand slipping underneath. the hard edge of his rings that you can feel through the bodice.

‘back then i think you found it romantic that i was of a proletarian element,’ you say. he only hums a laugh, then reaches to hold your hair to one side. his kiss is warm and openmouthed against the nape of your neck. your eyes flutter shut and one hand flies back to hold him against you, fingers tangling in his hair. it’s the first time he’s kissed you like this since—well, since before you rode up into mountains, away from a nightmare. you find yourself holding your breath.

he tugs your dress down about your shoulders and pulls your hips flush against him as you step out of it. you feel his kisses trace down over newly exposed skin, then a glance of teeth at your shoulder. you raise a hand to the front of your bodice and then stop yourself, resting a palm against your sternum. anticipating the games he might play if you let him undress you at his own pace. but you’re out of the mountains, and there will be nights to let it drag on. to savour the dance of it all, the long back-and-forth that he adores. now, as he traces his fingertips along the softest part of your inner arm, you think you might die if you have to wait. 

‘dutch!’ 

the voice is bill’s, unmistakably, approaching the tent. all the breath leaves dutch in a single, long-suffering sigh. you reach behind and squeeze his wrist in a gesture of solidarity probably undercut by the silent laughter that shakes you. 

‘what?’ 

you step away from him and towards the cot as he turns, hands at his hips, to face the direction of bill’s voice. 

‘money talk,’ bill says. ‘something real promising, up in that cattle town.’ 

‘for god’s sake, bill. i’m tired. see me tomorrow.’ 

when he catches your eye, your bodice is already on the floor. you sit to pull your stockings off, knowing you’re too genuinely amused for the smile you flash him to be at all come-hither. 

‘well, _sorry_ , i thought you might prioritise good money—on account of your _inspiring_ speech today—‘

he’s already shrugging off his vest. ‘if the money’s good, williamson, it’ll be there in the morning.’ 

you don’t hear bill’s reply. first, because he half-mumbles it, annoyed, as he’s walking away from the tent. second, because you’re watching dutch’s face, breath in your throat, as he turns to see you. his eyes move from your face, down the line of your neck to your breasts, belly, thighs. opens his mouth as if to say something and then closes it again. finally he takes a moment to put his vest away, then unbutton and do the same for his overshirt. watching you, thoughtfully, the whole while. you look back unflinchingly, though when you raise an arm to rest it above your head you find the soft hair under it slicked against your skin with sweat, even in this cool night. 

‘hosea tells me about something called the _salon des refusés_ ,’ he says casually. as he speaks, your eyes are trained to his hands. the rings. even as he discards his union suit, the rings, you know, will stay on.

‘sounds high culture,’ you say, raising an eyebrow. he’s naked now, standing by the foot of the bed. not even the weight that’s fallen off him recently can hide the broad lines of his shoulders, sternum, arms. he looks younger and older at once, you think, and wonder what he’s thinking of you in turn.

‘not at all;’ he says, adjusting a ring. ‘it’s where they send everything too debauched for the salon.’

you draw your legs up as you laugh. ‘what made you think of that? me?’

he places one big hand on your knee and parts your legs, gently, casually. you notice with a quiet thrill that he’s half-hard. ‘being demure doesn’t suit you,’ he says. his palm slides further up your thigh, just a fraction.

‘there are nude women in the salon, too.’

he laughs at that, hooks his hand behind your knee and tugs you towards the edge of the bed. ‘those women don’t look back at you,’ he says. lowers himself to kneel, his grip tightening. your heart is thudding behind your ribcage. ‘the women in the _refusés_ , i’m told- you can see the hunger in their faces.’

whatever smart thing you could have retorted dies half-formed when he leans in, presses his nose to the crook of your thigh and inhales deeply. you hear him swear under his breath, god _damn_ , pull back to bring his hands to either side of your cunt. he runs his thumbs gently over you, over wet curls, parts you open. his palm twitches minutely against your thigh.

‘look at you,’ he breathes.

the seduction is a performance. he has you. he knows this.

some of his performances you can indulge, happily.

the first broad sweep of his tongue makes you gasp and press forward. you feel him grin against you, then do the same again. the slight turn of his head to take every part of you in his mouth, the rub of his cheek and nose. your hips arc against his face and he responds greedily, fingers digging into your thighs, eyes closing.

you are distantly aware of the camp outside, can still hear its noise. cognisant enough to hold the back of your hand to your mouth and bite down on it when he kisses you openmouthed and then sucks, hard. your heel is pressing into his back, you can feel it tense and shift as his right hand reaches up, searching. maybe to stop you from quieting yourself. but he settles at your breast instead, cupping it and then pinching at your nipple so sharply and suddenly that it nearly makes you yelp. you can feel the quiet rumble of his laughter and dig your heel hard into his shoulder blade.

‘son of a bitch,’ you say weakly, shot through with breathless laughter. he pinches you again and this time you can’t - don’t - stop the high moan that it draws out of you. satisfied, he trails his hand down your side as he pulls back to sit on his haunches.

he kisses the inside of your knee and uses his left hand, the whole hand, to touch between your legs, your thighs, the wet line of your cunt. he spreads you with his fingers and traces the middle one around your entrance. you can feel yourself tensing around nothing, around your own want, sensitive to the lightest touch of his hand. slowly, assuredly, he slides two fingers inside you.

‘jesus, darling,’ he says. ‘i know it’s been a little while, but,’ - he draws his fingers out and then pushes them in again, just as slow - ‘you’re almost there, aren’t you?’

he can try to play composed with you, but he’s flushed all the way to his chest and you know he’s using his left hand because his right is at his cock.

‘one way to find out,’ you manage, and then the levee breaks and he’s above you, over you, everywhere, kissing your neck, the thick line of his cock dragging against your thigh. his arms caging you in and the warm skin of his shoulders under your hands. he grabs at your wrist to hold an arm above your head, mouthing at your nipple, the side of your breast, your underarm.

between the press of your hips you take him in hand and enjoy the delicious sound he makes, decide there to remember it. when he kisses you he tastes like the salt off his body and yours, the clean water from the river that you used to rinse off the day’s riding. you are struck by the pang of how much you’ve missed him, this man above you now.

you tell him. ‘i missed you, dutch.’

he stares. for a heartbeat you think he might laugh, remind you that you’ve seen each other every day for months. instead he says, ‘i know,’ and presses inside you, kisses you to swallow the noise you make.

you bite his lip, eyes squeezed shut. there are tears, you think, streaking hot down your temples. all these weeks - months, maybe - pressed down in your chest and now drawn out suddenly by the perfect feeling of him. he moves with his whole body, his hips pressing up against you. you lock your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, tug him away from your mouth.

‘i’m there,’ you whisper. 'almost there.' you don't have to say it anymore, but it hangs silent and heavy in the air: _please._

'i've got you,' he says, and you wonder if he knows the half of how right he is. 

and then there's just the bright, clear feeling of it, beaming out from somewhere near the pit of your stomach, and you're being _loud_ and you know it, clutching at his neck, hips writhing, fucking him back. he is saying something that you don't make sense of - the sound of his voice, low and strained, matters more now than the words, anyway. there are a few more shocking waves of pleasure that make you turn your head against the pillow, make a sound that's somewhere between a moan and a sob. he slows, but doesn't stop, sweeps the heel of his hand tenderly from the corner of your eye to where your hair is damp with sweat and tears.

he kisses the corner of your mouth. 'i won't last much longer,' he mumbles. 

the thought of asking for it aloud makes your stomach tight, so you run your hands over his shoulders and link them behind his neck, one leg hooked around his back. you feel him start, at that, can picture the look on his face. 

'you sure?' 

you're nothing if not resourceful, and you both know that there are some fairly simply acquired next-day fixes for this sort of thing. the herbs in this country, especially, are diverse and plenty. but it's usually not worth any of it - the effort, or nausea, or knowing looks from the women. right now, though, the idea of him not being inside you is unthinkable, nearly profane. some aching need heavy like a stone inside your chest tells you as much.

you nod, and he laughs helplessly. swears feverishly, then says your name with such desperation that it sounds about the same. and then his rhythm falters, hips snapping forward, and he buries the sound of it in your hair. he is perfectly still except for the pulse of him inside you. you feel as if your insides have been turned to hot oil, you are smiling, smiling, couldn't stop if you wanted to. 

a few long minutes pass before he shifts his weight off you. the feeling of him sliding out of you makes you both shiver. he's kneeling back between your legs, looking at you with a careful softness, one hand resting on your knee. the noise of the camp has quieted so that you can hear the low crackle of the fire, the buzz of insects in the darkening twilight. 

'this place is good, i think,' you say. 

he draws a long, slow breath. 'the place, yes. the people.' smiles, wryly crooked, and you rise to your knees to hold his face in both hands and kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> finally got around to playing this two years late, horny for cowboys, taking requests etc


End file.
